veryjanewatson

[veryjanewatson]

This is honestly the most MJ answer she could've given.

[veryjanewatson]

“Wasson.” His assistant’s name was slurred on his currently quite clumsy tongue. Normally a weapon of both bluntness and sophistication, it was as incapacitated as the rest of him right now. The culprit, the cause, was clear to anyone with the most rudimentary of deductive sense: the large and empty bottle on the small carved table beside him which had only just recently contained something both potent enough to sedate a gorilla (or Shaw, same thing) and expensive enough to fund several college grants.  Shaw often had a glass in his hand in public, but when he was going to actually be drunk, he drank alone, enclosing himself somewhere comfortable that he wouldn’t be interrupted. Such as the cozy, plush sitting room he was in now, opulent and ornate while also almost claustrophobic compared to most of the Club’s spaces. It was very dimly lit as well, with only just enough antique lighting here and there to allow him to see the bottle, at least until his vision blurred. A more Freudian person might even call it womblike, but it was unlikely that was what Shaw was seeking to return to, considering he had, in all likelihood, not come from a womb so much as sprung fully-formed from a briefcase like Athena rising from Zeus’s broken brow, ready conquer the corporate world from his first breath. But from Julius Caesar to Genghis Khan, even the greatest of conquerors needed. . .much as he hated the word. . .a break. And he did not wish to be seen on his, did not want his weakness and repose beholden by anyone. Not even his highly competent assistant; he had not called for her, and not expected her entry. In a more sober state, he’d have sent her away. But with his mind dimmed, the typical sharpness of his countenance dulled, and he instead regarded her, outlined in the comparatively bright doorway. The gears in his brain seemed to be trying to whirr, but they were jammed, halted to a crawl. Whatever he wanted to say to her next, it took several moments for him to remember. He gestured to her with two fingers to come in, come to him. If she did, he’d speak, leaning his elbow on the chair’s arm and the side of his unshaven face on the curled knuckles of the attached hand, his gaze uncharacteristically relaxed, “Wasson. . .you’ve wor...been woring....been worin....working for me how long?” Again, a Freudian might have said that was a very significant slip, but in fact, it was just a very ordinary difficulty with diction while drunk.  Shaw was a creature of great carnality, but also great professionalism---he didn’t fuck the staff, unless fucking him was explicitly what they’d been hired for. And that was NOT what “Wasson” was here for. Had he checked out her hot little body many times? Yes, of course, he just didn’t say or do anything externally. But that wasn’t want he was doing now. No, his expression was shifting to something far stranger for the likes of him than lust.  He looked. . .sad. He lifted his opposite hand, and touched the back of it, very lightly, to MJ’s cheek, while lifting his own from his hand so that he could tilt his face up more directly at her.  “You have a boyfrien’, don you?” The words were a little jumbled, but very comprehensible. He brought his hand down from her face, and grasped it around her hand. His other hand joined them, her small white paw sandwiched for a long moment between his larger, tanner, hirsute ones, his palms calloused and his veins prominent under the hair. He looked at the stack a long time. He was thinking about assistants he had before, or rather, on in particular. One who had been on the very, very short list of people he trusted. And about redheads he’d had before, or rather, on in particular. One who had been on the very, very short list of people he had cared about. And how both had betrayed him.  It is the nature of animals, when they are sick or wounded, to instinctively hide this. Shaw was no exception. He did not announce these thoughts. He could not have had them seduced or threatened out of him had anyone cared to try. Not even in this weakened state where he allowed himself to think them in the first place. He released her, leaned back, and rested his head again against his hand. “Be good to him.” And then he closed his eyes.

[veryjanewatson]

THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY THEY’RE SO DRAMATIC 

[veryjanewatson]

Starting to think Peter and MJ should've gotten married later than what they did by apprehension from MJ's part, because who else but Peter Parker would get with the one woman that doesn't wanna get married after two years

[veryjanewatson]

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY TO TALK TO YOU.

Please.

[veryjanewatson]

Spider-Man by Dike Ruan

[veryjanewatson]

[veryjanewatson]

Daydream Nation (2010)

[veryjanewatson]

Okay, breathe, MJ. Then find transport.

[veryjanewatson]

MARYJXPETERP

[veryjanewatson]

friendly reminder that even if i take ages to reply, i still want to roleplay with you

[veryjanewatson]

[veryjanewatson]

[veryjanewatson]

Karen Gillan

[veryjanewatson]

you gotta go home, man. how do i know i’m not gonna mess it up again? you won’t.  right, it’s a leap of faith.

[veryjanewatson]

Peter, you gotta go home.

[veryjanewatson]

“It was a great loss which gave birth to my favorite love story in not only comics, but also in all of fiction. The wonderful and hope filled love story of Peter and MJ, borne out of the fateful night Gwen Stacy died.” [x]